a. natasha joukovsky
journal
A BRIEF HISTORY OF MANUFACTURED NONCHALANCE
Again and again, nonchalance is something we want to build with images but tear down with words. On some level we all understand it is an illusion, so why do we keep falling for it?
A friend sent me this article in the New Yorker today by Rachel Monroe about "the bohemian social media movement" #vanlife, yet another glamour-based aspirational lifestyle turned carefully-curated visual product. The foundational abstract idea of this particular strain is "freedom," but the exterior narrative follows the same inevitable trajectory as every other such phenomenon, ending in manufactured nonchalance. Monroe describes the #vanlife photo shoot process towards the end of the piece:
“Smith had a particular image in mind: King sprawled in the back of the van, reading a book about Ayurveda with Penny nestled next to her, and an “Outsiders” decal featured prominently on her laptop. As Smith shot from the front seat, King tried a few different positions—knees bent; legs propped up against the window—and pretended to read the book. “Sometimes it’s more spontaneous,” she said apologetically.
“It’s about storytelling, and when you’re telling a story it’s not always spontaneous,” Smith said. “Lift your head up a little bit more, look like you’re reading.””
Our cultural obsession with nonchalance and this particular breed of mythmaking long predates Instagram, as does the desire to manufacture it. You can trace the seeds of the idea back to the tale of Pygmalion in Ovid's Metamorphoses ("The best art, they say, / Is that which conceals art"), but the first explicit reference I'm aware of is in Baldassare Castiglione's The Book of the Courtier, where it goes by the name sprezzatura. His is still perhaps the best definition of manufactured nonchalance out there:
“I have found quite a universal rule which in this matter seems to me valid above all other, and in all human affairs whether in word or deed: and that is to avoid affectation in every way possible as though it were some rough and dangerous reef; and (to pronounce a new word perhaps) to practice in all things a certain sprezzatura, so as to conceal all art and make whatever is done or said appear to be without effort and almost without any thought about it.”
Virginia Postrel refers to this same passage in The Power of Glamour and returns often to the impression of "effortlessness" as a central manifestation of glamorous visual communication. Building on Castiglione, she argues:
“Sprezzatura makes its possessor seem like a superior being and the observer feel momentarily transformed, enveloped in that aura of confidence and competence. Like the glamorously streamlined surfaces of the Chrysler Building, however, sprezzatura is a facade—a form of artifice that demands care to create and maintain.”
Manufactured nonchalance appears frequently in fiction as well. A neat little example from Anna Karenina:
“Anna had changed into a very simple cambric dress. Dolly looked attentively at this simple dress. She knew what such simplicity meant and what money was paid for it.”
In Ian McEwan's Atonement, Cecilia Tallis even more explicitly seeks the same effect:
“Relaxed was how she wanted to feel, and at the same time, self-contained. Above all, she wanted to look as though she had not give the matter a moment’s thought, and that would take time.”
Again and again, nonchalance is something we want to build with images but tear down with words. On some level we all understand it is an illusion, so why do we keep falling for it?
Social media has created a more robust strain. Sprezzatura is no longer just for courtiers; the art which conceals art has been democratized and demographized, with a feed for whatever your subjective tastes require. It is a glamorous distraction, but it's also a personal expectation.
Check out this no-holds-barred exposé from Rachel Cusk's 2014 novel, Outline:
“He was, in effect, manufacturing an illusion, no matter what he did, the gap between illusion and reality could never be closed. Gradually, he said, this gap, this distance between how things were and how I wanted them to be, began to undermine me. I felt myself becoming empty, he said, as though I had been living until now on the reserves I had accumulated over the years and they had gradually dwindled away.”
#vanlife is a metonymy of our culture, of our very world right now; we are all increasingly defined by our roles in this simulacra-based digital ecosystem. Disillusionment with it, the realization that "freedom," or whatever else you fetishize, is staged--this is the crisis of our time for people who aren't stuck in Syria.
YAYOI KUSAMA: INFINITY MIRRORS
Kusama's work is innovative and visually stunning, creating illusions of vast magical landscapes inside spaces often the size of a bathroom or closet.
Yayoi Kusama, Infinity Mirrored Room – The Souls of Millions of Light Years Away, 2013
My husband scored timed tickets to the blockbuster exhibition Yayoi Kusama: Infinity Mirrors at the Hirshhorn Museum in Washington last week, and for someone who loves recursion, it did not disappoint.
Kusama's work is innovative and visually stunning, the immersive rooms in particular creating illusions of vast magical landscapes inside spaces often the size of a bathroom or closet.
Yayoi Kusama, Infinity Mirrored Room - Love Forever, 1966/1994
Exterior shot of Infinity Mirrored Room - Love Forever at the Hirshhorn Museum
The individual tableaux range from intergalactic to Alice-in-Wonderland-style weird. My personal favorite, All the Eternal Love I Have for the Pumpkins, which is also Kusama's most recent and on view for the first time at the Hirshhorn, fell somewhere in the middle of this spectrum. This room is a total fusion of recursion, innovation, mythology, and glamour; it felt like stepping into an infinite futuristic fairytale dreamscape.
Yayoi Kusama, All the Eternal Love I have for the Pumpkins, 2016
I'm not surprised Infinity Mirrors has become crushingly popular--popular to the point that one of my friends teased I was "so basic" for going.
For such a photogenic exhibit, photographs don't do it justice. It's interactive and mass-customizable, selfie-friendly, and endlessly Instagrammable. It snuggles perfectly into the sociocultural mores of the moment.
I was fortunate to go on a Wednesday morning when the crowds weren't too bad, but the overall buzz surrounding this exhibition reminds me a lot of the 2011 Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty mania I experienced intimately when I worked at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. The glamour of the Kusama show has likewise transcended its inherent glamour. The more people wait in line, the more people are willing to wait in line. The line has become part of the attraction, not just a means of getting inside to see.
Here are all of my photos from Yayoi Kusama: Infinity Mirrors:
